Night of the Living Scabs
by SakiSaki
Summary: Chapter Six: End of the World. Les and Sarah continue their quest for Tibby's, while the group of six encounter trouble.
1. All's Well

_Disclaimer: I'm not sure how many original characters will crop up in this fic, but let me just cover my bases by saying all who you don't recognize are mine. And of course, those who are familiar belong to Disney (if they live through the fic – mwhahaha!).

* * *

_

Skittery scratched his ass and released a long, slow yawn.

"Iss 'uch-a 'orrring 'aaaaaaay," he moaned.

Snitch squinted up at the headline board, then over at his friend. "What didja say?"

"I _said_," Skittery repeated (with more than a hint of frustration), "it is _such_ a borin' day."

Snitch only shrugged as the line moved forward to buy their papers, prompting Skittery to explain himself further.

"Look at the sky. Look at it." He pointed upwards to assist Snitch in locating it. "What do ya see?"

"Uh… nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"N…" Snitch looked at it for another moment. "Nothin'?"

"Exactly! It's blue with a few clouds puffin' along. A bit o' sunshine and nothin' more. _Boring._ And read that headline – go on, read it."

Snitch took another step forward and squinted again. "'All's Well in the City of New York – People Feel Fine.'" He looked back and Skittery was slumped over against his walking stick, barely able to hold himself up (presumably out of boredom).

"That's gotta be the most borin' headline I ever heard in me whole life," he groaned miserably. "There's absolutely no way to spruce that up. What're we supposed to say? Anything we make up they'll see in a split second is a lie."

"Well, Skitts, I—"

"We can't get away fast enough from a headline that don't have even one single catchy word. I mean, if the headline was borin' like, 'Train Stuck in Jersey Due to Fallen Tree,' that's workable. Ya could always attach a few new words and flip some of it around, like, 'Trees Fall on Train – Hundreds o' Lives at Stake – Jersey Does Nothin'.' See, 'cause New Yorkers love to hate Jersey, right? And when the customer looks at it quickly he recognizes one or two words and don't realize the truth until, y'know, we've run away."

"Yeah, but—"

"But with somethin' like, 'All's Well in the City of New York – People Feel Fine,' what're we supposed to add to that? We can't do nothin'! 'People Happy Wit' New Well in New York – Water is Great'? Gee, that'll sure push a few papes!" He knocked his forehead against his stick and muttered, "Damn, there ain't nothin' like a borin' headline to ruin my day."

"Well, I dunno about all that."

Skittery straightened, a look of incredulity on his face. "Whaddya _mean_ 'you don't know about that'? What don't you know?"

"Ya could just change a letter or two and make it tons better." Snitch held up his hands and waved his fingers around to demonstrate the process. "'All's Hell in the City of New York – People Feel Fire!'"

Skittery's mouth hung open slightly as Snitch stepped up and bought forty papers.

"I… I guess that ain't bad," Skittery grumbled finally, slapping down some change. "I'll take forty papes too."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Specs slinking his way through the line, inching ever closer to him.

"Uh… say, Snitch, ya wanna be my sellin' partner today? Huh?" He gave his best attempt at an amiable smile, but Snitch reached out a hand and grabbed hold of Itey passing by.

"Sorry, Skitts, but Itey and me always sell together." Itey, knitting his eyebrows in confusion, looked from face to face and nodded.

"Me an' Snitch, always, 'at's right," he rasped. It was rare that he was given the chance to voice his thoughts, after all.

"And anyway, Skitts," Snitch continued while walking away hurriedly, "if 'People Happy Wit' New Well in New York – Water is Great' is the best ya can come up with… well, I – I got kids to feed." The two fled the scene as fast as their legs would carry them.

Skittery sighed and looked around for an alternative, accidentally catching Specs's eye in the process. The boy was buying his papes and looking at him with what one might describe as a longing expression. Skittery swallowed, his throat suddenly quite dry, and turned on his heel – walking sharply into someone.

"Oop—sorry, Dutchy," he mumbled, clutching his head in pain. Dutchy looked unfazed.

"Sorry for what?"

"For… for bumpin' into ya just now."

Dutchy threw back his head and scoffed, his blonde hair gleaming in the sun. Each strand seemed to fall perfectly back in place. "Don't be sorry."

"Okay."

"Be sorry for somethin' else."

"What're you talkin' about?"

Dutchy threw a glance over Skittery's shoulder, in Specs's direction. "You know what I'm talkin' about."

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Skittery's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Did I not share my bread with ya this mornin'?"

"Well, no, but 'at's not it."

"I didn't save ya any hot water."

"Not it either."

"I chipped your glasses and lied about it."

"'At was you?"

"Race bet me to spit in your baked beans and I did."

"I thought it tasted funny—"

"I stole five papes off 'a you last week."

"Hey, wait a minute—"

"That stain on your pillow? I can explain it."

"Alright, shuddup already! 'At's enough for fuck's sake." Now Dutchy was the one clutching his head in pain. "None 'o that is what I'm talkin' about anyway."

"Oh. So what's yer problem?"

Dutchy's eyes darted toward Specs again, then back to Skittery. "You know what my problem is."

"Is this a riddle or somethin'? 'Cause I'm not very good at 'em, but I think Davey—"

"You've been takin' somethin' from me – somethin' that means a lot to me."

"I told you, I been takin' lots of stuff from you."

"Not _somethin_', per se, but _someone_, whose interests are—"

Specs came up to them suddenly, causing Dutchy to break off at "are" and stammer it repeatedly.

"…are…are…are…are…"

"You're gonna have to stop speakin' in such vague terms."

Dutchy threw up his hands in frustration. "Just forget it! God!" He stomped off, running a hand through the back of his hair. Skittey and Specs tilted their heads and watched in subdued awe. It really did shine in this light.

* * *

Somewhere across town, the Delanceys sat in miserable silence, watching a spider carefully entrap a fly in its silk lacework.

"Good for him," Morris muttered, chuckling inanely.

Oscar felt a nauseating pang in the pit of his stomach and winced. He'd been getting that feeling a lot lately – ever since the end of the summer of 1899, to be exact. He, his brother and his uncle had been driven from the _World_ offices in disgrace, and they'd been forced to seek employment elsewhere.

They were loafing now, in the spring of 1900, in the basement of their new work residency (where they were likewise forced to live), avoiding the tasks of the day. Normally they were to tie up bundle after bundle of papers, heave them two by two onto the carts to be mass delivered, then report back to the supervisor who would give them new and ever-worsening assignments to be accomplished before the evening addition was to be bundled and shipped out. At the moment, they didn't have anyone screaming over their shoulder at what a lousy job they were doing, and so they took the opportunity to be lazy.

At one time they bossed around boys and men twice their size and handed out thankless, demoralizing chores with glee. Nowadays a kid half their age oversaw their jobs and made sure to wipe the floors with them as frequently as possible.

The name of the paper they worked for didn't matter. It wasn't very well known anyway; if it were, they wouldn't have been hired. What mattered was they were here now and they were supposed to be scrubbing the floors and sorting through decades-old newspapers. Why they weren't thrown out and why they needed to be organized by date and headline, Oscar couldn't quite understand. That's probably why they were neglecting their duties and watching spiders ensnare their breakfast.

"When's lunch?" Morris asked.

"Dunno. We had to pawn our watches, _remember_?"

Oscar looked down at his pants and noticed with irritation another hole in the knee. He used to have five pairs of pants, crisp and clean – now he was down to two, and both were barely clinging to his legs anymore. The dirt and stains were undoubtedly holding them together.

The headline of the paper beneath his shoe (worn and filthy) suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up, brushing the dust and soot off to reveal an aged photo of armed, vicious men. They looked not unlike the Delanceys' old gang.

"There's some funny soundin' words on here," he said in mild interest, glancing over at his brother. Morris had moved closer to the cobweb and focused all attention on the carnage about to take place. Oscar shrugged and attempted to speak them aloud anyway.

"'_Ollo vidi shananana, blecten nidi wananana, skidive shankin fentdonade, blinkin hi-life nata wadne. Vicci nicci picci dicci_.' Hmm, must be from another country – sounds like wop talk to me."

Without warning, the bowels of the building began to shake. A sound like thunder came from beneath the floor and rattled Oscar's bones from within. He glanced out the small window and saw to his astonishment that the sun was still out, no clouds had gathered – this was no storm.

Dirt fell through the cracks of the ceiling and their lanterns blew out, leaving them almost entirely in darkness. The large stack of papers they'd painstakingly organized toppled over and littered the ground once more. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, the rumbling subsided.

They sat in baffled silence for a solid minute before Morris spoke.

"You farted," he laughed insipidly.

Another sickening twinge in his stomach. Oscar sighed.

* * *

_Author's Note: So I was recently watching **Shaun of the Dead**, a film I've seen an unhealthy number of times, while simultaneously reading chapter fourteen of Rustie73's **Seems Like Only Yesterday**. Her amazing, rough-and-tough version of SkitteryPLUS zombies on screen EQUALS this fic as a belated birthday present to my friend. All I hope is that it makes her laugh. **Happy Birthday, Rustie!**_


	2. Don't Be a Snitch

_Disclaimer: I forgot to mention in the first chapter, dear readers, that this story is rated T for language, violence and, sadly, character death. If this disturbs you, well… what didja expect from a zombie fic?

* * *

_

"So…"

"Yeah, so…"

Skittery struggled to think of something to say. He didn't want to sell with Specs today – he had his own reasons for this. Nevertheless, he didn't want to be rude. They were, after all, good friends. Close friends, one could say.

"Is that… is that a new bowler hat?"

Specs motioned to the hat in question. "What, this old thing? Nah, it's—"

The ground beneath them suddenly began to vibrate. It wasn't strong enough to be described as an earthquake, but it definitely could not be attributed to a nearby trolley. Specs reached out and grabbed Skittery's arm to maintain his balance. A woman screamed, a child fell. Some vegetables rolled out of a merchant's cart and were stomped upon by a frightened horse, knocking its policeman owner to the cobblestones.

"What's goin' on?" Skittery heard Mush cry out, afraid. Instantly, the tremor stopped.

Those who had fallen were cautiously standing upright again; everyone was looking at the sky, despite the convulsions coming from below the earth. Skittery couldn't help but notice that Specs hadn't let go of his arm yet. Jack Kelly wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted at the sun.

"Must've been a nearby trolley," he said.

* * *

"Thank ya kindly." Snitch tipped his hat to the customer and pocketed the two pennies hungrily. He looked to where Itey was standing on the opposite side of the street and called to him. "Itey! Hey, Itey – 'at guy bought _two_ papes 'cuz o' my phony headline! What about you?"

"Not doin' so good," he answered, forlornly surveying the uninhabited area.

"Yeah, maybe we should move to a different spot; this place seems pretty dead." Itey nodded in agreement. "And maybe ya should learn how to sell," Snitch added under his breath. He adjusted his cap and they turned the corner together, when Snitch nearly tripped over an abandoned fruit cart.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I—" He looked around and his eyes lit up in realization. "There ain't nobody mannin' this! Let's take some, huh?"

Itey bit his lip. "I dunno, Snitch… what if he's just, y'know, takin' a leak somewhere. He could be back any sec, and I don't wanna have the bulls after me—"

"Aw, c'mon, there ain't no one around! 'S the quietest I've seen this place in a long while, come to think of it." He loaded his pockets with apples and tomatoes, biting into one or two and throwing the bad ones away. "Boy oh boy, this is great! What're ya waitin' for, Itey? We'll be eatin' good tonight. Maybe I can even gamble with a few of 'em… Racetrack'd probably like the tomatoes…"

But Itey wasn't paying attention. He was staring, transfixed, at a booted foot on the ground behind the cart. A booted foot that was presumably attached to a leg, attached to a person.

"I… er… uh… he…"

"This is why we don't let ya speak, Itey – ya don't make any damned sense. Hey, there's pears back here! We hit the gold mine, yessiree!"

"But… but… but…"

"I ain't had tomatoes in God knows how long. Say, you's Italian, maybe you and Race could whip us up some sauce, eh?" he laughed. Finally he stopped and glanced over at his speechless friend. Itey's face was flushed and trembling. Snitch narrowed his eyes. "Hey, Itey, you ain't gonna _snitch_ on me, are ya? You gonna be a goody-two shoes and—"

But Snitch didn't get to finish that thought, because suddenly the booted foot was up and moving and so was the person connected to it. But the person didn't look like a person – he had sickly, graying skin and milky white eyes and a twisted, wide-open mouth and was stumbling toward them as if his bones couldn't bend and…

…and Itey couldn't quite watch as Snitch was dragged behind the cart, screaming for help and then silenced. So he ran.

* * *

David and Jack walked hand in hand down the street, selling papers with smiles on their faces.

Well, in David's mind they did.

In reality, he was lagging behind Jack's steady stride, carrying a full fifty papes and wondering why the road was so deserted. The last street they'd been down was sparse with people, and it seemed every new corner they took contained less and less. Since David had met Jack, he'd never seen the Cowboy sell less than thirty of the morning edition. Today he'd sold only five, and it looked like they had reached their limit. What was going on?

"What's goin' on, Dave?" Jack asked, a hint of anxiety in his voice. "Why ain't there any people around?"

David was secretly flattered that Jack assumed he would have the answer – that he would always have the answer for everything.

"Um, I dunno, Jack. I'm really confused – I've never seen the city like this before."

"There's gotta be a reason for this." Jack stopped so suddenly Dave nearly walked right into him. "It ain't supposed to rain, is it? Or is there some big to-do I don't know about that's got everybody in one spot?"

"Not that I know of. The sky's clear and kinda, y'know, pretty." Jack looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "And if there was an event going on, it'd be in the paper, right?" David added, cheeks tinged pink.

"Right." Jack adjusted his bandana and looked around. A tumbleweed rolled lazily by – _an actual tumbleweed_. That was the last straw.

"That's it!" he announced, throwing back his hair in annoyance. "We's takin' a lunch break."

* * *

Skittery lived his life by a few simple words: _Kill the competition, sell the next edition_. It didn't matter if the world was trembling beneath his feet; as long as he had copies of the _World_ to sell, his business wasn't done for the day. The mantra repeated through his head now as he walked, his stick punctuating it every few beats.

He had informed Specs that he'd rather sell alone today, but still he knew the boy was not far – probably only a street or two down at the most. Things had gotten… a little funny, lately, between them, and he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out in what way they'd gotten funny exactly. Not just yet, at any rate.

_Kill the competition… Kill the competition…_

Ironic that Skittery lived for confrontation, yet he all he seemed to be doing lately was avoiding his best friend.

"'New Well Underground is… Making Life Hell for New York'," he called out to no one. Only a horse-drawn carriage – with no one driving, oddly enough – passed by. He was almost glad the streets were (strangely, eerily) empty because his headline adjustments were even embarrassing _him_. "'Well Ain't So Swell for People Who… Don't Feel Well.'"

_Ugh_. He was making himself sick. Maybe the guys were right, all those times they'd called him "morose 'n doltish". He'd never quite understood why they insisted on that nickname before now, but if he couldn't even take a simple caption and sell even one stinking pape, well…

"Maybe I should just give up," he muttered aloud. "I'se too stupid to do a damned thing right by anyone."

"Ya dumbass… ya dumbass! …Ya damned dumbass…"

"Alright, brain, I get the point!" Skittery shouted at himself, when he suddenly realized that the words were coming from another source. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Itey running toward him, panic-stricken and pale-faced. He didn't seem to be looking at Skittery and would've sailed right past him, had he not grabbed Itey by the shoulders and whirled him around.

"Hey, Itey, what're ya—"

"Ya dumbass, Snitch… ya God-damned dumbass! Why did ya… did ya…" His eyes were unfocused and he didn't appear to know where he was.

"Itey, what's wrong? Are ya okay?"

"I—Snitch is—dumbass—"

Skittery shook him a little, getting nervous himself. "What happened to Snitch? What're ya sayin'?"

Itey finally looked at Skittery, horror in his eyes. "He's dead! Some guy killed Snitch – killed him cold dead!"

Skittery probably wouldn't have been able to believe him if Itey hadn't then fainted away in his arms.

* * *

Dutchy was still stomping along bitterly, taking out his frustration on the soles of his shoes, when he became chillingly aware that he was alone.

In New York City. Completely alone.

He strained his ears for sound. No trolleys raking past, no clopping of hooves and clicking of wheels, no shouts of newsboys and salesman, no responding buyers and hagglers. Just the whistle of wind sweeping through alleyways, and a distant moaning that Dutchy couldn't place as anything recognizable, like one of pain or (dare he think it) arousal… no, it was just moaning, without any feeling attached.

He shivered in the sunlight.

Turning down the next street, he jumped back as if something bit him and hid behind the wall. He took in a deep breath, peered slowly past it and witnessed a truly horrible sight:

Skittery and Specs together, heads close and talking in hushed, secretive whispers. Dutchy scowled.

Sure, Skittery also happened to be propping up an unconscious Itey, and there was a look of alarm on both their faces rather than one traditional of romantic interludes, but they were together nonetheless, and it was driving Dutchy crazy. _He_ was supposed to be the one by Specs's side. _He_ was the one with glasses and stunningly magnificent blonde hair – a perfect complement to the chocolate-haired, bespectacled boy. Skittery couldn't even drag a comb through that ridiculous mop, for God's sake.

He had had enough of being ignored. Dutchy was going to go over there and tell them once and for all how he felt: that he belonged to Specs and Specs belong to him, and that's all there was to it.

But then someone had to go and rip his arm from his body, and Dutchy couldn't tell them a thing.


	3. Gathering

"What's all this?" Kloppman murmured worriedly, putting on his spectacles and bending over Itey. The boy was pale and still unconscious; a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead and his body would spasm every so often as if he were fighting off invisible demons.

Skittery and Specs exchanged glances and shrugged. "Skitts found him, Kloppman," Specs explained. "Itey ran past him without stopping, like he was runnin' from something… but there was nothing as far as you could see, right, Skitts?"

"Nothin' was followin' him, at least," Skittery answered. He narrowed his eyebrows and concentrated on Itey's face. "He looked all confused-like… like he was sleep-walkin' or somethin'. When I stopped him, he was babblin' a lot, and then he passed out."

Kloppman frowned. "What was he saying?"

"Um, lemme see…" He bit his lip and tried to remember as closely to the word as possible, afraid to leave out a crucial piece of information. "He kept callin' Snitch a dumbass," he said finally.

Kloppman waited a moment for further explanation. None came. "And? What else did he say?"

"Ah, yeah…" Skittery scratched the back of his head. "That was pretty much the gist of it."

"That Snitch… is a dumbass," Kloppman reiterated slowly, disbelieving.

"Yessir. He was pretty insistent on that." Skittery looked from face to face. "He seemed pretty scared," he added, hoping that would help.

It didn't.

"What a bunch o' stupid kids," Kloppman muttered, dipping a rag in cold water and pressing it against Itey's head.

* * *

Sarah Jacobs sat in her family's rocking chair, knitting one thing or another with little attention. Something was bothering her; it had been bothering her all morning.

A moan from the room across the hall erupted again, passing easily through the paper-thin walls and increasing Sarah's headache.

"Ooooooohh… uuuuuuuuughhh…"

Her back stiffened and she eyed Les carefully. He was playing with some marbles on the floor in his night clothes; he'd been "too sick" to go to school that morning, but seemed in pretty high spirits as long as their mother wasn't in the room. For now she was at the store, and the unwritten code of sibling behavior dictated he was free to play as he wished. Whenever the moaning occurred, he'd glance in its direction and shrug, returning his focus to the game at hand.

Sarah breathed in relief. The last thing she needed was explaining to her ten-year-old brother what happened when two people fell in love, and got married, and rented an apartment together and apparently didn't have _jobs_ to go to and could spend the whole day _doing that_ without regard for their neighbors…

Her thoughts drifted to Jack. Jack, with his beautifully untamed hair. Jack, with his shirt open and his bandana falling lightly on his collarbone. Jack, with his smiling lips and dancing eyes and arms slung around her brother. Jack, always with David and never with her, his fiancée.

"Oooooohhh… errrrrruuuugh!"

Sarah bit her lip and pressed her fingertips against her temples. There was suddenly a violent crash in the other room, like a piece of furniture falling to the ground, followed by silence.

_Is it finally over?_ she dared ask herself.

"OOOOOOOOH," joined another voice, louder this time.

"That's it," Sarah declared, standing up. "Les, we're getting out of here."

"Really?" The boy's eyes lit up. "But what about Ma?"

"Don't worry about her. I'll leave a note saying… saying you needed medicine, and you came with me so the chemist could choose what would be best for you." She scribbled all this down as she spoke and left it on top of the dining table.

Les tugged on his shoes and they walked out the door, into the hall.

"Where are we goin'?"

Crash. Bang. Moaning. Les's head jerked toward the neighbors' apartment, alarmed, and so he forgot to close their own front door.

"Far from here," Sarah grumbled, grabbing him by the hand and also forgetting about the door.

* * *

"What's goin' on, Jack?"

"Yeah, why ain't there no people around? I can't sell to no one!"

"I got a full thirty papes and I don't know what I'm gonna do…"

"Please, Jack, tell us…"

Jack heard their cries and saw their worried faces. The gathering at Tibby's hadn't been this full of newsies since the days of The Strike, and it brought a special feeling to his heart. It swelled with pride as he smiled upon his brothers, their business-savvy brains already calculating the possible losses in profit.

"Look, I know you guys are concerned… let's just relax for a sec, please. Quiet down." He waved his hands and they hushed immediately, looking up from their empty tables. None had dared buy anything; selling had never been this poor before because there had always been someone to sell _to_, no matter how bad the headline. And no one had any idea how long it would last, including Jack. It made him feel a little uneasy.

Racetrack sat beside him, nervously shuffling and re-shuffling a deck of cards. The familiar noise was soothing to Jack – the flickering of paper, the patting down and clicking against the table – and lifted his spirits slightly. He looked back to the crowd.

"So we know that this block and a few blocks up are still pretty normal, right? Not a lot of sellin' goin' on, but not licked yet." There was a general murmuring of assent. "How is it south from here?"

Blink, sitting on the other side of him, raised a hand as if asking permission to speak. Jack nodded, granting him the right, and Blink stood up to address the group, hoisting up his pants as he did so.

"It's good – not great, but good." He sat down. Mush clapped him on the back supportively.

"Okay. And how's it farther north?"

Silence. Shuffling of feet, avoidance of eye contact. A cough here or there.

"How's it farther north?" Jack repeated, this time with more urgency in his voice. Still nothing.

"Don't tell me none o' you ain't been north. Who usually goes up there?"

"Snitch!" someone yelled.

"Look, you won't be a snitch if you tell us who—"

Race touched Jack's arm and said quietly, "Nah, Jack, I think they mean that _Snitch_ usually goes uptown."

"O-oh. Oh yeah." Jack threw back his hair and nodded affirmatively. "And who's his sellin' partner?"

"Itey," someone else responded.

"Why aren't they answerin' for themselves? They ain't here?"

People muttered and looked at each other, shrugging.

"Maybe they just didn't hear about the meeting," Blink suggested.

"Alright then. This is kinda unusual, I give ya that. But if anyone sees 'em, fill 'em in," Jack ordered. "Who else goes uptown?"

The names of Skittery, Specs and Dutchy were offered, but seeing as they were also absent from the conference, none of it was very useful.

Suddenly the door was flung open, the little bell clanging sharply, and Swifty entered. He was panting and coughing as if he'd been running for blocks – and in fact, he had been.

"Where have you been?" Jack demanded, though not unkindly.

"Say, Swifty," Snipeshooter called from the back, "don't you sell uptown?"

Swifty nodded, looking bewildered.

"So what's it like up there? Any people?"

Swifty held onto the doorframe for support, took a deep breath and said, "It's dead up there."

* * *

"So what do we do now?" Specs asked, jingling the few pennies in his pocket over and over and over and over—

"Specs, can ya _please_ stop doin' that?" Skittery asked through gritted teeth. "It's drivin' me _crazy_."

He thought he saw Specs's face fall slightly, but he pretended he didn't. Either way, Specs complied.

"'At's not an answer, by the way," he muttered.

"Well, I don't know what do do, Specs. You're the smart one here."

Specs looked at him in surprise. "Whaddya mean? You're smart."

Skittery shrugged and stared at the ground to avoid his embarrassment. He didn't believe it, or he chose not to, or there was something a little flattering about that and he didn't want to think about it so he just kicked a rock and watched it travel down the road. It landed at a pair of ragged shoes – if they could still be called shoes – that were just barely held together by having shoelaces wrapped around them tightly, keeping the soles attached. Skittery looked up.

"Teef?"

"'At's wha' dey call me," the boy said, an air of defiance permanently fixed upon his face. A Long Island accent as thick as Pulitzer's wallet and a mouth that would rival Racetrack's, Teef was a legendary newsboy who truly lived by the credo, "Carryin' the Banner."

"Who's this?" Specs muttered warily.

"It's Teef! Long Island newsie; sleeps mostly in the gutters. Haven't seen him in awhile." Skittery smiled at the newcomer. "Whaddya doin' around here, Teef?"

Teef was only a year or two younger than they were, but judging by his size he looked about nine years old. He had a boyishly round face, but it was aged and hardened by life on the street, making him appear to be more of a shrinking elderly man. The paradox of his age and countenance cut quite an intimidating figure.

"'At ain't none o' yer business, Skitts." He spat on the ground, a yellowish, dark splatter of God knows what. It vaguely resembled his skin – brown with dirt, the circles under his eyes black from sleepless nights. The clothes scarcely clinging to his small frame were filthy, hole-ridden and smelled strongly of tobacco and body odor. Specs pinched his nose as Teef stepped closer, eyeing them with suspicion.

"Why ain't you'se two at dat meetin'?" When he spoke, his cracked lips revealed only a few dark teeth still affixed in his gums. The rest had rotten away, assuredly due to malnutrition, and left him incapable of pronouncing certain words and sounds correctly – hence his name.

Specs and Skittery exchanged looks. "Whaddya mean? What meeting?"

Teef gave a condescending grin. "Dat 'Hattan meetin'. Yer Jack Kelly is hostin' some meetin' over at, ah, Telly's or some shit like dat."

"Tibby's?" Specs submitted.

"Yeah, dat dump."

"Guess we better get over there," Skittery said after some thought. "Say, Teef, where ya goin'? There ain't no one to sell to up in that direction." He motioned to the stack of papers Teef was gripping firmly under his arm.

"Don' tell me where ta sell, mac!" Skittery held up his hands in apology, trying not to breathe in the boy's scent as Teef got closer, jabbing him in the chest. "An' anyway, what I don' sell ends up bein' my bed fer da night, somethin' you sure as hell wouldn' understand." Teef spat as punctuation, this time landing it just beside Skittery's shoe. "You fuckin' pansy-ass 'Hattaners an' yer damned lodgin' houses."

He shoved past them and continued stomping up the street. Specs gave Skittery a look.

"So that's Teef, huh?"

"Yeah. Helluva guy, really."

And they made their way toward Tibby's.

* * *

Dutchy became dimly aware, after awaking in a pool of his own blood, that he was being beaten over the head with his own arm.

Dutchy resented this intensely. First, because of how demeaning the act was. Second, because of how incompetent his assailant was at the act of murder. Third, because this guy was preventing him from ingratiating himself with Specs, and he'd be damned if he'd just lie down and take a beating while Skittery was winning over what was rightfully his.

This third thing was what prompted Dutchy to stand up (shakily, and in an overwhelming state of pain), swing his right fist into his attacker's nose (breaking it with a satisfying _crunch_), and retrieve his arm after a victorious kick to the testicles. The man crumpled to the ground, moaning strangely.

Dutchy could see that the damage he'd done would only temporarily detain his aggressor, and so – with his arm in hand – he fled the scene, trailing blood and whispering Specs's name in determination.


	4. Swifty's Story

"One, two, three… one, two three… one, two—hey, why'd ya stop?"

Swifty rolled his eyes and turned toward Jake. "Because it's getting on my nerves."

"Just wanted to see how many o' my steps it takes to match one o' yours," Jake said in defense, rubbing his upturned nose self-consciously.

"Well… do it in your head." Swifty continued to walk as before, and Jake quickly followed.

"Now I see how ya got yer nickname. Swifty. Ya sure are, alright. Swift as lightnin'. That's how ya got yer nickname, right? Ya can run as fast as lightnin'?"

"Yes," Swifty answered, with a hint of exasperation in his voice. "That's how I got my name. How many times have we sold together?"

"About…" Jake stuck out his tongue a little and screwed up his face in concentration. "…If I had to guess, that is, I'd say, about, roughly, twenty-three times this year so far, and it's spring, and I've known ya about three and a half years, so…"

"Care to buy a pape, miss?" Swifty asked a young woman carrying a basket of clothes. His voice and expression softened and he held his papers almost out if her line of vision, as if they weren't worthy of her attention.

She looked uncertain. "Well, I…"

"And might I say how lovely you're looking this morning, although that's improper of me because no doubt you're engaged, probably to a gentleman of real standing…" Swifty cast his eyes down to the ground and kicked an imaginary stone. "Not a street rat like myself, of course."

She turned a bright shade of crimson and handed him a penny. "Th-thank you, I… I'll take one."

"I'm much obliged to you, ma'am." He gave her a paper, pocketed the penny and called over his shoulder as he and Jake resumed their walk, "Stay beautiful." He overheard her emit a tiny squeak in embarrassment and scuttle off, skirt swishing along the ground.

Jake whistled, impressed by the transaction. "You sure is good wit' the ladies," he said. "And wit' words."

"So we've sold together a lot, according to you," Swifty continued, as if the conversation hadn't been interrupted at all, "and you're only just figuring out now that I'm called Swifty because I'm fast and, perhaps, smart."

"So I was right?" Jake smiled proudly. "Gosh, I'm good at this stuff. How'd you learn all that fancy talk?"

"My father had a lot of money when we came over here from China." Swifty's tone indicated he didn't want to stick to this topic for much longer. "I learned English quickly by hanging around a lot of well-off business men."

Jake seemed distracted; his attention tended to flutter from subject to subject without warning. "I wish I had a nickname."

For the first time during the discussion, Swifty sounded mildly interested. "Yeah, why _don't_ you have one? I never understood that. All of us have one, except Dave, but he doesn't really count."

"And Jack."

"No, Jack's name _is_ a nickname. Weren't you paying attention during The Strike?"

"Ya mean… Jack's name ain't really Jack?" Jake looked completely taken aback.

"What? No, it's Francis Sullivan." Swifty stared at his selling partner with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. "That doesn't ring any bells?"

"Uh… no. Not a one."

He bit back a remark. "Well, anyway, why don't you have a nickname?"

Jake removed his bowler hat, scratched his head for a few seconds, then put it back on and shrugged. "Nobody could think o' nothin', I guess."

"You don't have any talents or special interests?" Negative. "You're not known for anything in particular, like eating pies or going to one place all the time?" Negative. "You're just sort of boring and empty?"

Jake shrugged.

"Then I think the name Jake is a fine nickname," Swifty said. He tucked his papers under one arm and jammed his hands in his pockets, quickening his pace.

"Say, so you was rich?" Jake whistled again, and Swifty mused to himself that perhaps his nickname should've been Whistler. "I didn't know that. What happened to your pop?"

"I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you."

Jake already looked like he was counting Swifty's steps again, this time in his head as requested, so the topic didn't continue.

"Hey. Swifty. Hey. Swifty. Hey, Swifty—"

"_WHAT!_" The boy whose name he himself was getting sick of hearing whirled on Jake in frustration.

"I just wanted to know why yer in such a bad mood today, is all. Ya just seem so… snappy."

Swifty sighed. "Look, Jake. Can we please just do what we're here to do and sell some damned papes? I'm not out here for my health."

"I think yer not tellin' me somethin' and just usin' our job as a way to cover it up," Jake said with a surprising amount of insight. "And anyway, look around! Ain't no one to sell _to_, exactly, is there?"

Swifty realized with a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach that he was right: there was no one around anymore. His fingers began to fidget nervously in his pockets.

"O-okay, you win," he said, in an attempt to stave off the silence of the city, "I _am_ feeling kinda down, and there _is_ a reason why."

Jake smiled and adjusted his hat proudly. "Thought so. I got a special sense about these sorta things. So what's wrong then?"

Swifty's eyes were darting quickly from the sky (no incoming storms) to every alleyway they passed by (no gang wars or criminals), looking out for trouble. "Well, I… I have a lady, y'know."

The boy's eyes widened in admiration. "Ya do?"

"Yep. I have lots of ladies."

"Ya _do_?"

"Yep, I—"

* * *

"I'm sorry, but does this story have a point?" Snoddy interrupted rudely. "'Cause there are other things we should be talking about if it doesn't, like, for example, why half of New York is suddenly missing."

Swifty looked at him wildly, not sure how to respond.

"I kinda was enjoyin' it, actually," Racetrack said. "It's nice to hear about the ladies after starin' at you mugs all day." He gave a rather violent _TAP_ of the cards on the table.

"Well I'm sick o' hearin' about your damned girl problems, Swifty," shouted an irritable voice from the back. "Most of us don't even have one girl, and yer complain' when ya got three—"

"Everybody quiet down _now_!" Jack commanded. The objections ceased immediately. "Swifty, please continue."

* * *

"Yes, I have lots of ladies. But right now I'm only having a problem with one of them."

"What's her name?"

"Isabelle." The corners of Swifty's mouth twitched into a small smile. "Isabelle's her name."

Jake sighed, dreamy-eyed. They stopped walking, and he leaned against a wall with his hands behind his head. "Is she real pretty?"

"Yes. Yes, she's very pretty."

"So what's the problem?"

Swifty frowned again. "She doesn't approve of my _other_ ladies."

"Huh?"

"She doesn't like that I see more than one girl. And I can't have a girl telling me what to do and demanding all of my attention like some whiny brat. It's just… too much to deal with."

"Sounds like having more 'an one girl is too much to deal wit'," Jake said, looking at him.

"Well, it is sometimes… but that's my choice. She's not the boss of me." Swifty twisted his mouth into what Jake could have sworn was a pout.

"You really like her, don't ya," he said, for it wasn't a question.

"Regretfully so," Swifty replied. They hung their heads in silence, the knowledge weighing heavy on their hearts that one of them had fallen in love, and the only way out was—

"You've gotta cut it off wit' the rest of them, and go back to her with a present. It's the only way they'll believe yer sorry, these women. Ya should probably make it somethin' soft or sparkly."

Swifty nodded and looked up. Jake wasn't so dumb as he once thought; Jake was a good guy and a good friend.

Jake was standing next to an alley where a gray, decaying hand suddenly emerged and ripped out his left eye. They both screamed.

"Wha—wha—what the hell—!" Swifty cried, breathless, searching around frantically for a weapon of some sort. He found a loose brick falling out of the wall and, with all the strength he could summon, smashed it against the hand, breaking several of its fingers. Jake collapsed to the ground, unconscious, and the eyeball rolled away.

Swifty stepped back quickly and watched in silent horror as a woman stepped out of the shadows, moaning terribly with her slacken mouth. She wasn't nursing her broken hand; she just let it hang loosely by her side as she stumbled forward. Swifty's first instinct of course was to _never_ hit a lady, but as he looked at her more closely he realized there was something different about her. The noises she was making didn't sound human, exactly; they sounded, almost, if it were possible, _otherworldly_.

Swifty threw the brick at her head, knocking her back a few feet, and grabbed Jake by the back of his shirt, trying to drag him away. But Jake was too heavy, and the woman was coming back. She sunk her teeth into Jake's leg and pulled him roughly toward her. Swifty had never seen someone tear into human flesh like that, with such lifeless hunger; he managed in his frenzied state of mind to notice that her own skin looked faded and dead, like it was rotting off her bones. He didn't know what this meant, but he suspected the devil might be involved.

"Oooooooh… uuuuuuugghhh…"

He whirled to his left and saw, just up the street, a man who had the same graying, dying skin. He too was groaning unnaturally, and what was worse – he was feeding on the arm of a dead old woman beside him.

Swifty did the only thing he knew how to do at that moment, and ran. He ran in the opposite direction, downtown, and didn't ever stop to look behind him. He could run like lightning, some said.

* * *

As Skittery and Specs made their way in silence toward Tibby's – noticing with curiosity and relief that every passing block contained more people – terror gnawed away at the back of Skittery's mind. It itched and tingled, tormenting him because he couldn't make heads or tails of it. At one point he even hit himself in the head with his palm, trying to knock it away, but Specs just touched his arm in disapproval and he saw that they were near the restaurant.

But there was something. Something he'd forgotten. Something important.

* * *

Esther Jacobs entered her apartment with an arm full of groceries and a heart full of sudden dread. The door was wide open, and her children were missing. Her knees buckled at the thought.

Mind distraught, her body moved mechanically into the kitchen and set the bag down gently (when you became a wife and mother, you developed automatic instincts for these things). She glanced around and tried desperately not to panic, unloading the items and putting them away in the cabinets.

Sarah's note suddenly caught her eye, and she breathed a sigh of relief after reading it over. They must've simply forgotten to close the door, that was all. She was a tad worried about Les going out and about when he was still sick, but she knew Sarah would take good care of him.

What she didn't know was that, thirty seconds after thinking this, she would be attacked from behind and effectively turned into a zombie.


	5. The Tally and the Question Mark

Jack noticed that David had been extremely quiet since the meeting had started, almost to the point that he'd forgotten David was there at all. Now, after hearing about this horrible, unbelievable monstrosity that had just happened to a close friend of theirs, Jack turned to the only person who could ease his mind in times of crisis: The Mouth.

The Mouth was clearly thinking hard about this new event, and Jack could visualize the gears turning in his mind, grinding out some fantastic analysis of Swifty's encounter with… whatever that thing was. He watched his friend's (clear sky) blue eyes closely, but David said nothing.

Everyone else, on the other hand, seemed to have something to say, and the restaurant erupted in fearful cries and shouting. Some waiters covered their mouths in shock, slinking to the kitchen out of sight.

"Jake's _dead_! Is that what yer sayin', Swifty?"

"Some lady _killed_ Jake? How could that happen?"

"Whaddya mean? Whaddya mean killed? Who'd wanna do that?"

"We gotta call the bulls! We gotta get help—!"

"Hey," Race yelled over the noise, slamming his cards down and standing up, "ain't _nobody_ callin' the bulls. They won't do nothin' to help us anyway." He looked at Jack with a hint of self-doubt, but spoke slowly and with confidence. "If we go to the cops they'll just tell us to stay out of it, and then whatever's out there could get another one of us. We need to deal with this on our own. Right, Jack?"

Jack thought about this, glancing over at David before answering. "No, we better not go to the bulls. However," and here he addressed everyone, "I wouldn't worry just yet. It's a terrible, fucked up thing that's just happened to our friend, and let's never forget him—"

"Wait, who's Jake?" somebody whispered off to the side.

"—but it's only one newsie, and it ain't like whoever did this to him is pickin' us off one by one. Here things are safe, and there's plenty o' people goin' about their daily lives. As long as we stay away from the north, we should be okay." This seemed to relax many of them, though only for awhile. "Now, Swifty," he turned to the bewildered boy, "you say that this, er, lady looked like she was dyin'?"

Swifty nodded, trembling all over at the recollection.

"And up the street you saw another person who looked like that too? Like he was dyin'?" Another nod, and Jack sighed, leaning over to Blink, Race and David. "Okay, whaddya think?" he asked quietly. "Is there some sort o' disease that's sweepin' over New York, or is Swifty nuts?"

"He's probably screwed up after seein' Jake die," Blink said, sadness in his voice. He twirled a finger by his temple to clarify his point. "I don't think anything he says can be dead right, on account of him bein' put into shock, y'know?"

"Like he's seein' things? Yeah, that makes sense. What do you think, Davey?" Jack looked at him hopefully.

"I don't know," was the answer, and Jack's face fell.

* * *

Skittery opened the door and he and Specs entered Tibby's unheard. He was immediately taken aback by the din of the crowd and the worried looks on everyone's faces – too severe to be worried simply about selling papes.

"What's goin' on?" he asked, tapping the nearest newsie on the shoulder. The boy turned around and Skittery instantly recognized Lashes, one of the newest to take up residence at the Lodging House.

Lashes was very curious to Skittery. Here was a boy their age with large green eyes, shiny like emeralds, and long, dark eyelashes – much like a girl's. He had delicate features and naturally smooth, clean skin; he wore bulky clothes and never seemed to go without at least three shirt layers, even when everyone else was getting changed in the morning or evening. Skittery sometimes thought Lashes even had _breasts_, though that didn't make sense and he was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him.

The strangeness didn't end there. Lashes was the only boy Skittery ever saw to not have an Adam's apple, and his voice was sort of high and funny. He was small and thin, and clearly hadn't been on the street very long. Despite this, Lashes was already one of the best sellers in their group, and furthermore there was nothing he couldn't do. He could beat Racetrack at poker, fire a slingshot as far as Spot Conlon, teach the little ones how to read, match wits with Jack in a charming, amusing way and even laugh at Crutchy's jokes. Because of all these good things, no one questioned his more mysterious qualities.

Skittery liked Lashes okay – everyone liked Lashes, it was hard not to – but Specs didn't trust him. Specs frequently said that there was something this kid was hiding, and admittedly his past was a complete mystery. He didn't talk about himself much; when someone asked a remotely personal question, he easily changed the subject with a joke or a game. The other night Specs had demanded Lashes answer his very simple question about where he'd come from and what his family was like, but upon hearing those words Lashes's eyes welled up with tears and he'd run from the room, crying like a girl.

Now, as he spotted Specs, Lashes pulled the brim of his cap down and looked away, embarrassed. Specs coughed and continued forward into the crowd, but Skittery stayed behind.

"Heya, Lashes, what's goin' on? We just got here."

"Oh, Skitts! It's the most awful thing; Swifty's just come back from uptown, and—"

"Oh yeah? We've just come from there."

That apparently startled Lashes, the color draining from his face as he asked, "Then did you see what happened?"

Skittery frowned. "Whaddya mean?"

"Swifty was sellin' with Jake, and Jake got killed!"

"_WHAT_?" Skittery cried.

"He says it was some weird old lady that came out of the shadows and just—it's horrible!—_murdered Jake_!" Lashes covered his face in his hands, and people began looking over at them.

"Well, uh, didja even know Jake?" Skittery asked in an attempt to comfort him. He leaned his walking stick against the wall and patted Lashes on the shoulder awkwardly.

"Of course I knew Jake – who doesn't know Jake? Jake and I would skip stones in our spare time, talking about life and… love." Lashes gently laid a hand on Skittery's forearm, looking up at him with coquettish eyes.

"But you've only been here one week," Skittery said, confused.

"You can get to know a person quite well in a week," Lashes sniffled. "And now… he's dead!"

A young newsie nearby burst into tears at this.

* * *

Specs glared around the room in serious thought. People were panicked, visibly shaken by the loss, and resorted to petty arguing as a distraction. Overhearing the main points of Swifty's story from a rambling, pale-faced Crutchy, he remembered Itey's fainting spell. His gaze landed on David, who was strangely silent, Racetrack, who was strangely without wisecracks, and Jack, who was strangely without a plan.

This wasn't like The Strike, Specs mused. During The Strike, there had been a clear problem and an unclear solution, but a strategy had been formulated early on and it was putting it in motion that was the risky part. But here, now, the problem itself was unclear, and no one seemed to know where to start.

That is to say, what do you do when your friend's been killed and there aren't even any people around to blame?

"H-hey, Jack," Blink suddenly said. "Isn't that Specs? Specs, hey!"

Jack looked up, and Specs turned in surprise, moving closer.

"Yeah, I'm here. So's Skittery."

"Look, I think it's very important we all keep a close eye on each other from now on," Jack announced, and people began to pay attention again. "We don't want an accident happenin' to anyone else. Where ya been, Specs?"

"Ya been uptown, right?" Blink asked.

"Skittery and me had to take Itey back to the Lodging House. He passed out this morning, so Kloppman is takin' care of him."

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Skittery trying to cheer up a little one, playing a game of rock-paper-scissors. Specs smiled. Then Lashes leaned his forehead against Skittery's chest, wiping away a tear, and Specs narrowed his eyebrows.

"I think we should keep a tally of who's missin' and who's present," Jack said. "Anyone got anything to write on?"

Mush grabbed a few napkins off the next table and a waiter's pencil. Jack pushed it over to David, who said nothing but obediently began to write. "Put a checkmark next to everyone who's here – Itey and Kloppman too, 'cause we know they're safe – and, uh, cross off Jake's name." He turned back to Specs. "Was Dutchy with you guys?"

Specs blinked. "Dutchy's missing?"

* * *

A very tired Dutchy threw his body against the wall of a bank, breathing hard, and closed his eyes. Aside from a throbbing ache in his shoulder, the pain wasn't so bad. The loss of blood was making it extraordinarily difficult to get anything done, or to even stay conscious for that matter, but Dutchy was determined.

He glanced around and tried to figure out where he was, avoiding the sight of his detached arm as best he could. It really made him sick thinking about it. How _dare_ someone do that to him?

He realized (hazily, hazily) that he was near Duane Street. _Thank God_, he thought with relief, _Kloppman knows how to sew_.

Though the lack of one arm kept throwing off his balance, he was making good time – considering he probably shouldn't have lived through the ordeal. He got to the Lodging House in minutes and threw open the entrance door with a triumphant laugh.

The laugh and bang of the door, however, was the loudest noise to be heard on that block for an hour or two, and it attracted some attention. Two people – a father, with his young son – began to move toward him, groaning.

"Oooooooh… uuuuuuggghh…"

Dutchy's spine stiffened at the familiar sound. He turned, his hand still on the doorknob, and saw the figures on either side of him; their eyes were glossy and colorless. The small boy latched onto his leg and Dutchy screamed, struggling to kick him off. The father wrapped his hands around Dutchy's throat, choking him with surprising strength until Dutchy couldn't see very well anymore. He gagged and just barely made out the smell of rotting flesh; he would've stopped to ponder this had he not been fighting for his life.

He gave a violent shove with his free foot and kicked the son down the steps. He didn't know they were zombies, but he also didn't care what was prompting them to kill him. In his mind, that was reason enough to defend himself whatever way he could.

Gripping his severed arm like a weapon, he smacked it over the man's head and suddenly he could breathe again. He whirled around and beat it over the man's head again and again, again and again, blood smattering everywhere, until one mighty blow sent him down the stairs beside his child. Dutchy ran inside and slammed the door shut, pushing a large piece of furniture in front of it as a barrier.

"Kloppman! Kloppman, where the hell are ya?" he shouted nervously, leaning over the counter. He saw no one. The moaning returned and the two figures beat on the door, throwing themselves against it over and over. Dutchy ran up the stairs, howling Kloppman's name.

* * *

"Snipeshooter?"

"Here!"

"Boots?"

"Yep!"

"Tumbler?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Ten-Pin?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Jack."

"Okay. And put a question mark next to Dutchy's name," he told David. David did so and handed over the completed list. "So here's who's missing then. Jake," here Jack lowered his eyes and frowned, "who ain't comin' back; Dutchy, who nobody's heard from since we first bought papes this mornin'; Itey, who's with Kloppman, and Snitch…"

Snitch. Snitch.

_Snitch._

As if a fog had lifted, Itey's earlier words rushed to Skittery's ears and rattled through his head like a scream.

"_He's dead! Some guy killed Snitch – killed him cold dead!"_

"I remember now!" Skittery shouted, waving off Lashes and pushing through the crowd. "Jack, I remember! When I found Itey," his voice was rising hysterically as he got closer to the front of the room, "he told me that some guy killed Snitch! He told me that Snitch is dead – and that's when Itey passed out! Jesus Christ!" He began to laugh uncontrollably, but it sounded strange and foreign to him. "Snitch is dead!"

"Have you lost yer fuckin' mind, Skittery?" Jack demanded, and the restaurant exploded in terrified cries.

"Oh my God." Blink looked over at Mush, whose face was completely drained of color. "Oh my God."

"I can't—I can't believe—" It was really scaring Skittery that he couldn't stop laughing, but the shock was too great to act logically. "I'm sorry, I really am sorry—"

An unlit cigarette dangled from Racetrack's lips. "I don't fuckin' believe this," he muttered, cradling his head in his hands.

Jack was trembling in anger. "Skittery, what the hell happened? Did Itey really say that? Was he serious?"

"I—I—hahahaha!—I just can't believe I didn't remember—!"

Swifty hurried across the restaurant to the bathroom, clutching his stomach in revulsion. Specs put a firm hand on Skittery's shoulder, squeezing it, and abruptly he was able to regain control of himself.

"Y-yeah, he was serious." Skittery looked at his shoes, thoroughly ashamed of his outburst and struck by the realization that he would never see Snitch again. His eyes began to water. "Itey told me, shakin' and white… but I guess… I guess I couldn't handle it and forgot…"

Jack ran a hand through his hair, now sticky with sweat, and turned to David helplessly. To his surprise, The Mouth spoke.

"They've got to go back to the Lodging House," he said quietly, "and find out from Itey what happened."

Jack stared at him and almost smiled. "You guys, ya—_please!_ You guys, we gotta get some order here. _Be quiet!_" he yelled, severity evident in his tone. Skittery rubbed his face in his hands and willed himself not to cry. "What we need, here, is for some people to go back to the Lodging House. Specs and Skittery, I think you two should go back since you're the ones who found Itey. Maybe he'll be more comfortable seein' you'se two."

Specs nodded and patted Skittery on the back. David cleared his throat.

"Swifty should go too, to see if his description of the attackers matches Itey's story." His voice was low and barely audible.

"Swifty!" The boy slowly emerged from the bathroom, terrified. "Swifty, we need ya to go with Specs and Skittery, and – Race, Mush, you two go with 'em for back-up – see if Itey's experience was like yours. Sorry, I know it's gonna be tough on you," Jack added, seeing the look on his face.

"I'll go too!" Lashes shouted from the back.

The last thing Skittery wanted to do was go back out on the streets – out where people got absorbed into alleyways and vanished without rhyme or reason. He thought that maybe Jack, with all his talk of bravery, or David, with all his fancy planning, should get out there and wake up Itey and see if maybe he wasn't too emotionally disturbed to relive the death of his best friend for a few minutes.

But Skittery hadn't been feeling too good about himself lately, hadn't been feeling like he had anything to offer the world or the people around him, and Skittery thought that maybe now was the time to change things.

And so the group of six, with all the courage they could muster, made their way out into the city—Skittery grabbing his walking stick and letting the door slam behind him as the clock struck noon.


	6. End of the World

Les coughed and spluttered and coughed again, weakly but with feeling.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Sarah said with a laugh. "_I_ know full well you're not sick, and it's not as if you're selling papers."

Les wiped his mouth and shrugged. "Force o' habit, I guess."

"I'll bet." She looked up at a street sign and tried to figure out how much further it was to this Tibby's restaurant Les mentioned, suggesting that Jack and David might have gone there for an early lunch. She had expected to run into at least one of the newsies out hustling the headlines by this point, but so far the air had been surprisingly clear of shouted exaggerations and fabricated stories. In fact, the city itself seemed to be getting clearer of people with every street they passed.

"Hey, y'know, we're getting close to Medda's," Les said. "Ya think we could maybe drop in for a song or two?"

"I think you're too young to be seeing that particular show," Sarah answered darkly.

"Well _I_ think we should go to Medda's." This was said with a strange, declarative quality that she didn't expect from her kid brother – even he seemed surprised by it. "And anyway," he went on casually, "Toby could get us free candy."

"Who's Toby?"

"He's the old clown that works there. Gives me free candy."

"You accept free candy from a middle-aged clown?" she asked in reproach. "How naïve are you?"

"Not as naïve as you are," Les muttered.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Oh, nothin'. Don't listen to me, I'm just a kid. Whadoo I know?" He whistled and continued walking along with a little added spring in his step.

"Well, anyway," she went on, as if he hadn't said anything, "we can't stop in for a show just because you're bored. We've got to find David and Jack."

"Why?"

"What?"

Les stared at her. "Why do we have to find David and Jack?"

"Uh…" Sarah faltered, blushing slightly in her confusion. "Well, there's not an exact reason that we _have_ to find them, but, um, don't you want to see them?"

He shrugged. "Why not. Better than school, at least."

"Hey, Jacobs!" called a voice across the street. Both of them whirled around, but the boy was addressing Les. "Nice nighty, ya girl!"

Les looked down at himself, painfully aware that he'd never dressed out of his night clothes before leaving the house, and sighed. Life sure could be difficult sometimes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Specs lagged behind the group and noticed with disappointment that even the southern part of Manhattan was now mostly clear of citizens. He hoped against hope that people were simply wising up and seeking shelter indoors, making their group of six the only people foolish enough to be out on the streets, and when all this was over the death count would be minimal.

He didn't know who or what was causing the death count, of course, but he had a few ideas after discussing with Swifty what _exactly_ he had seen the hour before.

"_What do you mean their eyes had no color?"_

"_They were white – white and strange and terrible."_

"_This woman, she didn't react when you broke her fingers?"_

"_Nope, not at all. It was the devil's work, I'm telling you."_

"_She bit into Jake's leg? Like she was trying to eat him or something?"_

"_And another guy down the street… he was chewing on someone's arm."_

"_And they all made the same noise? What was it like?"_

_Here Swifty had turned to him, looking sick and scared. "Something tells me we'll hear it soon enough."_

Swifty had insisted again and again that it was "the devil's work," these people and the way they were behaving. Specs didn't know what to make of this. Being raised Jewish, he believed in God and judgment in the afterlife, but knew nothing of fire and brimstone and pitchforks and frankly found the idea a bit ludicrous. Still, he had to admit that – assuming Swifty was in complete control of his mental faculties and his description was accurate – these people didn't sound like people. Not people from this world, anyway.

But since there was little Specs could do until they talked to Itey and compared stories, he turned his attention to something else. Namely, what the hell Lashes was doing clinging to Skittery's arm like that while they walked.

Race and Mush were at the front of the group, the former attempting to cheer Swifty up with a lengthy, dirty joke revolving around women's garters. It had Mush in stitches, but Swifty could barely crack a smile, his eyes darting around for trouble. Skittery said something implying that Race would know about women's garters from personal use, which sent Lashes into a fit of high, shrill hysterics.

Specs grimaced. Skittery blushed and glanced back in his direction, but said nothing.

"Golly, Skitts, where'd ya get such a great sense of humor?" Lashes asked in awe. Specs mimicked him behind their backs, batting his eyelashes demurely.

"Uh, I dunno." He scratched the back of his head and flipped his cap around so the brim pointed at Specs, curved downwards in a frown. "'S funny ya say that, Lashes, 'cause the boys have a nickname for me…"

"Yeah, Glum 'n Dumb," Race declared in revenge, smirking and lighting up a cigarette.

"Don't mind Race – he's been workin' on his poetry and it ain't turnin' out so good, is all." Race rolled his eyes but chuckled in spite of himself; Lashes shrieked with girlish giggles.

Specs suddenly caught something very interesting. He squinted and moved a little closer to the group, trying to get a better look – but sure enough, he wasn't hallucinating.

As clear as day, there it was: a long, thick lock of shining red hair, hanging loosely from under Lashes's cap.

"GEE, WHATEVER IS THAT? I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD SUCH LONG HAIR, LASHES," Specs announced, admittedly a tad louder than might have been necessary.

Everyone whirled in Lashes's direction, but in the blink of an eye he had stuffed the ringlets back under the hat, hidden from view.

"Why, I guess my hair is a little on the long side, Specs." He motioned to his bangs, the only bits of hair showing, and added through gritted teeth, "But it's nowhere near as long as Jack's." He laughed coyly and everyone shrugged, turning away.

Lashes peered back at Specs and narrowed his eyebrows, smirking victoriously and holding Skittery's arm a little tighter. As annoyed as he was, however, Specs knew he had Lashes pegged, and smiled to himself.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So there's virtually no way to alter the headline for the evening edition that would improve sales. Is that what you're telling me, Jonathan?"

"Correct, sir. I'm afraid the population statistics will clearly show that…"

Seitz sat in Pulitzer's conference room with a bored, but vaguely attentive expression on his face. It was something he practiced frequently: how to tune out every other word his boss said while still managing his job efficiently enough to go unnoticed.

Pulitzer was rattling on and on about how poorly the day's profits had been – _Complaints for a change_, Seitz thought bitterly – and how to effectively put something in the water to spawn more people for the lives lost. They were as of yet unsure what was causing the disappearance in citizens, but clearly Seitz was the only man in the room who cared why. The more imminent question was how to make a dollar off of the situation, and how soon this could be done.

"A drug that urges the body to procreate," Jonathan offered, shivering like a small dog.

"Yes, thank you for reiterating my point, Jonathan," Pulitzer commended sarcastically. "Now how about making yourself useful and getting me a whiskey sour?"

"Yes, Mr. Pulitzer! Right away, Mr. Pulitzer!" He fled the room in a hurry. Seitz rolled his eyes.

"Chief, don't you think we should be concerned that half of the city's population has vanished without warning?"

Pulitzer chuckled condescendingly. "Ever the golden boy, Seitz. Ever the golden boy." He shook his head and sighed. "I'll take a moment to indulge you. What is your _theory_ as to the reason for the sudden decrease?"

Seitz, ignoring the way the word "theory" was obviously mocked, continued. "Word on the street is murder, Chief. Mass murder committed by an unknown, but highly lethal gang front."

"Ah, my drink!" Pulitzer announced upon Jonathan's arrival, pointedly dismissing Seitz's input.

But Jonathan wasn't Jonathan. His face was contorted into a sickly, twisted expression of hunger; his eyes were blank and held a disturbing lack of color. Most noticeably, he wasn't shaking with fright. He stumbled forward, still clutching the drink but dropping it upon hearing Pulitzer's voice.

"You _idiot_, Jonathan! You incompetent schmuck! Can't you do _anything_—"

Jonathan seized Pulitzer by the throat and proceeded to throttle him, opening his mouth as if craving a bite of the man's face. Seitz jumped up from his seat, alarmed, and grabbed something off the table beside him; it was a very old and very valuable Tiffany lamp. Holding it in his hand the way he did at that moment, Seitz recalled the days of his youth – when he'd spent hours every afternoon playing stickball and was known by his friends as "Batter of the Block." He smiled in fond recognition, and swung the lamp across Jonathan's face, knocking him to the floor.

Pulitzer fell to his knees, panting. "I cannot believe this. First he drops my drink and ruins my carpet, then he tries to kill me? That blasted fool has just lost his job. And Seitz! What the hell are you thinking? Do you have any idea how expensive that—"

Seitz cracked the lamp over Pulitzer's head, just enough force to knock him unconscious. Not because he thought Pulitzer had been taken over like Jonathan mysteriously had been – just because he'd been wanting to do that for years and this was his only opportunity without Pulitzer remembering later and firing him for it.

Well, he was right about one thing: Pulitzer wouldn't remember. Because at that moment, Jonathan got up again and sunk his teeth into Pulitzer's jugular. Seitz screamed in horror, ran out of the room and tore down the street, never letting go of the Tiffany lamp.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Racetrack took a long drag off his cigarette and did his best impression of someone who wasn't scared for his life. It fooled everyone but Swifty.

Race wasn't a religious guy – he believed in luck, not fate. But when he was young his mother had insisted he attend church with her a few times, and he'd heard plenty about hell in those hours. So all of Swifty's talk about the devil and his insistence that this was some sort of judgment on the earth was starting to freak him out a bit.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips and noticed his fingers were trembling. He cursed under his breath and tossed it to the ground – not a second later, his name was called.

"Race!"

"What?"

"Race! Guys!"

He looked up and saw Les running toward him (in a nightgown, for God knows what reason), with Sarah lagging behind.

"Heya, kid." Race ruffled his hair and gave a slight wave toward Sarah.

"Why're you in a dress?" Lashes asked, looking Les up and down. Before he could reply, Race interrupted impatiently, concern evident in his voice.

"What're you two doin' out here? It ain't safe."

He saw Sarah's face fall and realized that she didn't know something that they knew.

"What… what do you mean?" she asked, looking from person to person.

"Some friends of ours have been… uh… killed, today. And other people around the city, too."

"_What_?"

"Who died?" Les demanded. "What's goin' on?"

"Snitch. And Jake. Dutchy's missin' too," Mush said quietly.

Sarah blanched. "But—but the headline this morning said—"

Skittery removed his hat and cleared his throat a little. "Yeah, we know what it said. It's a lie – it's bullshit. Ya need to get inside some place safe."

"But what's happening? Who's doing this—?"

"We don't know anything except it isn't safe to be out here."

"Then why are you all out here?"

Racetrack rolled his eyes. "'At's what I'd like to know…"

"Les, just get Sarah outta here," Specs whispered to the boy. Les nodded and Specs turned back to Sarah. "Tibby's isn't too far from here, and that's where Jack and David are. Maybe it's a good idea for you to be with 'em."

"Yes." She shook her head, staring at nothing. "Yes. Yes, that's where we're trying to get to." She looked up at them suddenly and asked, "They're together? David and Jack? Did Jack—did they ask about me? I mean, us? Are they—"

"Yeah, we gotta get goin'," Race declared, walking away from them. The others followed suit, mumbling their apologies.

Les took Sarah by the hand. She seemed shaken and confused. "It's gonna be alright," he said, leading the way.

Not very long after that transaction, Race became aware that the city wasn't so quiet anymore. Instead of voices and wheels and hooves, however, it was dull, haunting moans that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"Does anybody else hear th—" He cut himself off when he caught sight of Swifty's face. He followed his gaze up to the Lodging House.

"I told you," Swifty said. "I told you."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Author's Note: Yeah, I don't really like this chapter much. Full of ideas that sounded good in my head but just wouldn't come out the right way in text. I spent days tinkering with it, but can't make it how I want it, so here it is anyway. I'm very interested to see if it works for your guys, though. (And big THANK-YOU! to those who have reviewed so far!)_

P.S. Is it just me or is the line break function not working?


End file.
